The transition from the scorched, magnetic foothills of the Sun-Eater Peaks to
the mist-shrouded jaggedness of the Whispering Coast was a journey across a
world that was still weeping.
As the Pearl-Sovereign sailed away from the newly formed Southern terraces, the
air changed from the dry, metallic tang of iron-dust to a heavy, salt-laden
humidity that clung to the skin like a damp shroud. The sky above was no longer
the brilliant gold of the Southern sun; it had settled into a somber, bruised
indigo, the color of a winter sea just before a storm. The "Real" world's
weather was erratic, unpredictable, and entirely indifferent to the fact that we
were the ones who had saved it.
I stood at the prow of the ship, my hand resting on the smooth, cool wood of the
railing. The Single, Perfect White Pearl mark on my left palm felt freezing, a
localized point of absolute zero that seemed to be drawing the very warmth from
